


Inquisition

by RootTitanX



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23854003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootTitanX/pseuds/RootTitanX
Summary: A storyteller with mysterious goals, and a Redguard of unrivaled ability journey across Skyrim, causing and solving problems along the way. Updated fortnightly, till completion.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. A Story

“There’s always a story waiting to be told, isn’t there?”  
“Hmm?”  
“A story, lying in wait. Right in front of your eyes. One that will have you on the edge of your seat. One that will make you laugh, make you cry, and perhaps even make you think. I’d even go so far as to say that our world is made for stories, and by them.”  
“I think you’ve had too much ale, friend. Or, whatever that… is.”, said the Redguard, pointing at the glass held by the storyteller.  
In his hands the storyteller held a tall flagon, filled with white liquid, with a layer of golden liquid on top, dotted with specks of lavender and garnished by a yellow flower. The storyteller chuckled, took the flower out of the liquid, placed it gingerly on a napkin, and said,  
“This is actually a wonderful example friend, of a story waiting to be told. Each ingredient in this drink…has a history, a path it took to get here. Some of it might even be useful to me on my journey.”  
The Redguard picked up the flower and gave it a cautious sniff.  
“Doesn’t smell of moon sugar.”  
The storyteller gave the Redguard a wry smile.  
“I do not jest, my dear Ra Gadan friend. Let us take this cream as an example. The milk for this cream…Where do you think it came from?”  
“How am I supposed to know that?”  
“You aren’t, and neither do I. However, let’s take an educated guess. See that besotted gentleman over there? In the finery?”  
“What about him?”  
“He was about fifteen minutes ahead of us when, we were making our way East to Riften, heading out from a farm.”  
“He couldn’t carry a flagon of milk, let alone a cow’s worth.”  
“No doubt. My guess is that he simply owns that farm and was checking in on it. However, the point is without that man and his story, this cocktail could not exist.”  
“You see too much.”  
“On the contrary-”  
The storyteller’s words were interrupted by the Argonian bartender.  
“I couldn’t help but notice you two discussing my drink. Well, what do you think?”  
“Quite exquisite, Talen of Gideon. The touch of mead on top real helps cut through the thickness of the cream. Very rich, and meticulously constructed. A drink truly fit for a king. Or a Jarl, as they would say around here. Compliments to the maker.”, said the storyteller, placing a handful of Septims in Talen’s hand.  
“Thank you very much!”, Talen said. His excitement was plainly visible on his face.  
“Talen, would you mind taking a seat for a moment? My friend and I have much to ask you.”  
“I must apologize gentlemen, I have to get ready for the evening rush, so I do not have time now. However, survive the night long enough to remember your request, and I’ll be more than happy to sit down with you for some mead.”  
“Well, then, let me get your rush started. How about another white-gold tower for me, and some mead for my friend?”  
“Actually, would you have something stronger?”  
“I know just the thing”, Talen said, and disappeared behind the bar for a few minutes before returning with two flagons. One with the white-gold tower, and another, containing a homogenous deep orange-brown liquid, with a layer of frost floating on top.  
“Only for the most adventurous, I present to you the cliff racer.”  
The Redguard eyed it carefully, sniffed it, and took a sip. The Redguard’s request was fulfilled, the drink burned as it went down his throat, and he could already feel the alcohol kicking in.  
“My friend will never say it, but I think you’ve done your job splendidly, Talen. Here are a few more Septims for the trouble.”  
“Much obliged, gentlemen. I’ll be behind the bar if you need me.”  
As Talen walked away, the storyteller took another sip of his drink, and said,  
“Well, Razul, looks like we have some time to kill. Will you listen for me?”  
Razul glared at the storyteller, took a hearty swig of the cliff racer, sighed, and nodded slowly, closing his eyes.  
As the day waned, and Azura’s hour came to pass, the tavern started lighting up with activity. The vermillion lights of flame clashed with the periwinkle light streaming in through the windows, and both only served to highlight the silver inlays of the storyteller’s midnight blue cloak, as he effortlessly blended into the crowd. Any that would observe the silvery pattern would fail to comprehend it, with gears in motion, shifting within gears shifting within gears, to infinity. Yet, not once was the storyteller questioned of it, for his stories, and his tone, held those who would hear them, rapturous.  
Soon, the night would come, and with it, Kyne’s lights. A dance of divine light beyond compare, fell upon the tavern, as those inside continued to make merry oblivious to its divinity. A vibrant green, a melancholy blue and a prideful lavender danced upon the face of Razul, the Ra Gadan warrior, but he was be unable to witness this sight, for his eyes were closed, and his face strained, listening to each motion in the vicinity. It is said that those of Ra Gadan blood are natural warriors and capable of knowing dangers from miles away, but Razul was singular even amongst those of his blood.  
“Now, listen here, you stupid lizard, give me more mead, or I swear upon my honor as a Nord, that you will suffer a fate worse than the Elves slain by Ysgramor.”  
“Sometimes, I’m unsure whether the Rift wishes to be helped.”  
“Why don’t they listen to me, Keerava? I am a true leader, unparalleled in Skyrim.”  
“Damned Black-Briars. Thieves, the lot of them.”  
“Why is a master of arcane like me, forced to sell his abilities, nay his soul, for a pittance? I should be an Imperial battlemage, I tell you.”  
“I had another run-in with the thieves’ guild. Sneak thieves can’t keep their hands in their pockets.”  
“I was accused of stealing mead, again! How many times do I have to explain to that damned scuttlehead Indaryn, that the Dreth! DO! NOT! STEAL!”  
“Is there any action tonight? I’m in desperate need for coin.”  
A bead of sweat trickled down Razul’s forehead, his eyelids strained to keep his eyes tightly shut. At that moment, he was a sink for information, and as he struggled to process it all, a single voice cut through.  
“This city is a dump, not doubt, but it is my dump. Every stone, every brick, and every breath of air drawn in this city belongs to me. And yet, some would have the audacity to challenge me. To challenge Maven Black-Briar. Can you believe it, Maul?”  
“Not at all.”  
Maven let out a mirthless laugh.  
“Can you get some more mead for me, Maul?”  
“Will do.”  
“And not the swill the peasantry drink, only top shelf Black-Briar mead. Get the one with Juniper berries.”  
“As you wish.”  
A soft palm came to rest on Razul’s shoulder. Razul slowly opened his eyes, as the storyteller took a seat in front of him, his hand still resting on Razul’s shoulder. Restorative Magicka streamed through the storyteller’s hand, the color returned to Razul’s face and his mind crystallized. Razul reached for and quaffed down the rest of his room temperature drink with haste.  
“Easy my Ra Gadan friend, easy. It’s not the World-Eater’s time yet.”  
“I wish it was.”  
“You look tired. Do you wish to rest for this night? We do not need to do this today.”  
“No, no. The sooner this is over, the better. I believe that the lady that sits in the corner upstairs is who you want.”  
“Wonderful. I’ve come to the same conclusion. Anything important I need to know?”  
“She is filled with greed, anger, and a sense of superiority.”  
“Quite the lovely dame, is she not?”  
“She also suspects that she is being hunted.”  
“Oh, now that is new to me. Absolutely magnificent, my friend. I think you’ve done as much as you can for the day. Drink, eat and make merry, for it’s my turn to work now.”  
The storyteller rose, patted Razul on the back and walked over to the bar.  
“Talen, my dear Argonian, would you please keep my Redguard friend there topped up?”  
“Sure, I can open up a tab, if you give me some collateral. Don’t want you skipping the bill, do I?”  
“Oh, of course. It pays to be wary around here. No offense.”  
“None taken. Now, I’m guessing a couple hundred Septims should cover it.”  
“I must confess Talen; I am sorely lacking Septims as of the moment. But I’m hoping that this should cover it?”  
The storyteller withdrew an ingot of solid gold from an inner pocket, roughly 4 inches in length, and an inch thick. Talen-Jei took the ingot in his palm, and his face grew with more and more surprise as he inspected it.  
“Whoa, the make of this! It almost looks like it existed this way, rather than being casted as such.”  
“Thank you, I made that!”  
“You’re a Jeweler too?”  
“I dabble. Magicka helps!”, said the storyteller with a wide smile.  
“Hey, wait a moment – How do I know this isn’t fake? That I’ll not wake up in the morning with a rock in my pocket instead of Gold?”  
“Well, Talen, I only have my word to offer.”, said the storyteller with a sigh. “But don’t you think…That’s enough?”  
Talen stared into the storyteller’s eyes looking for deception. The storyteller leaned forward and whispered a few more words to Talen-Jei. But Talen would not hear them. As soon as the first syllable came through in his mind, all his mental faculty vanished. The next few words, would pass through his mind, listened but not heard, making their marks as they passed. And as the storyteller leaned back, and Talen’s mind returned to his own control, he stood enraptured still, not by the words, but by the serene smile in front of him.  
“I think this will be all right.”, he said, slipping the ingot into an inner pocket of his dress.  
“Marvelous, Talen-Jei. Now, if you would excuse me, I have some work to do.”  
The storyteller stood up from his stool lithely, and with a flourish of his cloak, started walking to the staircase leading to Maven Black-Briar’s alcove. As his foot hit the first stair, the storyteller turned around, with a flourish once more, and said,  
“Talen, please also bring up a case of your finest mead. I think we’ll need it.”


	2. A Tryst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storyteller has a tense meeting, while Razul attempts to wait.

Maven Black-Briar was always rather fond of her throne in the Bee and Barb. From her vantage point, she could see the truth of what was happening in her city. All the rabble beneath her, looking for every chance they can get, to forget, to escape their lives. And she was their Sanguine, offering them not only the Septims that flowed through this town, but also the drink that would allow them to forget. Or perhaps to remember, to remember who they were, to remember of better times. How amusing were they, those who would call this city rotten, without realizing they were funding it. Stopping the flow of Black-Briar mead was all that was required to change this city, and yet, the citizens would rather cause their own agonizingly slow demise, than to stop drinking the golden ambrosia. Maven knew, knew that the citizenry would remain placated as long as mead and money flowed through Riften, knew that they would remain silent, as long as there was even the slimmest chance that they could themselves ascend above the horde of drunkards and thieves. Sitting on her throne, she could see every grab for power, as the citizenry fought amongst themselves, each blaming the other for allowing her to wrest control, while attempting to assert their own will on each other.  
And while she sat with a smile on her face, chatting idly with her right-hand man Maul, she couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. Information was key in her regime, and she was smart enough to know that it was not fate, when the flow money changes, when rumblings of revolution increase, and when people start disappearing. Maven Black-Briar was in a delicate position, one where she was sure there was someone of power working against her, but she knew not who. And when one only has knowledge of a coup, but not the details, one would be wise to keep their mouth shut, at the risk of revealing information. At this stage, when her world was slowly beginning to tend to flux, Maven was a little out of her element. Somebody was playing her own game against her, and anybody around her could be pieces in the game. Not even Maul, who she had hand-picked from the thugs at the Thieves’ Guild was free of suspicion. Or perhaps he deserved it, as he was the one closest to her, the one who stood to gain most if her meticulously built house of cards were to come crashing down. In the end, they were all rabble, looking for the next opportunity to rise, and do not care whose corpses they had to step on to achieve that.  
“And what did that idiot, Brynjolf say?”  
“He said he’d gotten a bad tip.”  
“That’s impossible, I thought you personally passed it on to him.”  
“I did.”  
“So, tell me who screwed up here, Maul? Whose head needs to roll?”  
“Brynjolf’s of course!”  
“And tell me Maul, what do you think Brynjolf would say?”  
“Uh…...”  
“What would he say Maul?”  
“That the information was bad, that my balls were on the line.”  
“So, who is right, Maul?”  
“Maven, listen, there’s no way, absolutely no way that the shipment didn’t make to Madesi, I mean, it made it all the way to Riften!”  
“And did you verify that Madesi received it?”  
“What do you want me to do Maven? Break into his home and check his diary? I can only ask so many people before they get suspicious.”  
“So, you’re saying Brynjolf might be right, that the shipment never made it to Madesi.”  
“I…I suppose so.”  
“Maul, can I ask you some questions?”  
“Of course, Maven.”  
“Would you say…that you know me well?”  
“No doubt. The only people you’ve spent more time with are your children.”  
“Since you know me so well, Maul, tell me, why is Sibbi in jail?”  
“Because he stole money from you. Because he murdered an innocent man.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“I…Um...”  
“Maul, I punished Sibbi not for his crimes. I punished him because he was incompetent. He will inherit every Septim I own one day, so him stealing from me is tantamount to stealing from himself. A move of an idiot. The unfortunate passing of Wulfur the wanderer was one to be mourned, but my son let word get out that he did it. He is no longer a child that I may save him from himself.”  
“I understand, Lady Maven.”  
“Good. Now find and wring the neck of whoever stole from the Black-Briars. You have one week.”  
“But…. My lady!?”  
“One week, Maul. And that’s only because I like you.”  
A voice rang out from the landing of the stairs.  
“Lady Black-Briar, I have been asked to give this cask of mead to you.”, said Talen-Jei from just out of earshot. Maven scrutinized Talen-Jei for a moment, and said,  
“Come, Talen. Place it here.”  
The Argonian complied, his eyes never deviated from the floor through this entire exchange, as he gingerly placed the cask of mead labeled “Blue-Briar” on the table in front of Maven. Blue-Briar mead was aged for a minimum of 25 years in an oak barrel, the air inside siphoned out through Magicka, with lavender and periwinkle for flavor, giving it its distinctive purple tinge and the name. This barrel was specifically unique, as it was one of the first barrels of Blue-Briar ever made, as visible by the date 4E 176 stamped on them. A single glass would cost a laborer a year’s wage. To Maven, however, this was a weekend drink.  
“And to whom do I owe the pleasure, Talen?”  
“That would be….uh, I’m not sure what his name is, but that man over there.”, said Talen pointing to the Storyteller, who was overlooking the bee and barb, with a flagon in his hand, and a smile on his face.  
“Very well Talen, you can leave, and ask the gentleman to come share this with me.”  
Talen bowed, and backed away slowly, trembling with fear. On his way out, he whispered a few words to the Storyteller, which widened the smile on his face. The storyteller stepped forward and walked into the alcove with a flourish and closed the door behind him.  
“Quite the expensive gift. And to whom may I owe the pleasure to?”  
“Names are powerful lady Maven. To the right mage, they are priceless. However, as a sign of trust, I offer you mine. I am known as Shalidor.”  
“Quite the powerful name, Mage. But know that I do not need a name to hold power over people. You’d do well to remember that.”  
“Of course, Lady Maven.”  
“Come, sit. Let us share this mead, which my family and I strived so hard to make.”  
“But of course.”  
The silence lingered like a fog, as Maven Black-Briar poured herself, the storyteller, and Maul, each a drink. The tension only grew as each of them slowly sipped their mead, the storyteller was unaffected and continued to smile serenely throughout. Maven continued to glare at the storyteller, waiting for him to make his move. The tension lingered for a few more moments before Maul finally broke it.  
“And for what business have you come for, Mage?”  
The storyteller did not avert his gaze from Maven.  
“Information, Maul. To be offered and sought. Something for the lady’s ears alone.”  
Maven’s gaze held strong, as she put her flagon down.  
“Maul, leave.”  
“Maven, I-”  
“Leave.”  
“Yes, my lady.”, said Maul with a defeated voice, as he stood and left the alcove, closing the door behind him.  
“Speak now, mage.”  
“A moment, my lady.”  
The storyteller closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. When he opened them, the iris had changed from a pale icy blue to a deep pinkish red. The storyteller took a moment to observe his surroundings, and said,  
“Maul, you were request to leave.”  
A subdued shriek emanated from behind the door, as well as the sound of footsteps scurrying. Maven’s eyes flared up for a moment but settled down before the storyteller could notice it.  
“Quite unbecoming of those we trust, isn’t it Maven?”  
“If you’re done, can we begin?”, Maven spat out, averting her eyes from the storyteller’s.  
“Why the rush Maven? I like to take my time. I’m nothing if not thorough.”, said the storyteller as his smile widened.  
The storyteller closed his eyes, and cast a few more spells, observing the surroundings around him in detail every time. This process continued for a few more minutes, with each casting, his eyes would change once more. With the last spell, the storyteller looked around for one last time, before scanning Maven’s form in detail.  
“Are you done, mage? Have you confirmed that we are indeed alone?”  
“Oh, we’re never alone Maven. There’s always eyes on us. And you…You have very interesting eyes looking at you Maven. Would you like to know whose eyes observe you so keenly?”  
“Enough; Mage. Stop with your teasing.”, Maven said, averting her gaze once more.  
The storyteller simply smiled and filled their flagons once more. As Maven took another sip, the storyteller began,  
“Maven, I said that I came to seek and offer information. I’m sure you’re aware that there’s a conspiracy afoot. One that seeks to undermine you, and if possible, depose you as queen of this city.”  
“Is that all?”, said Maven with a sigh. “You disappoint me, mage.”  
“Maven, dear lady, one must never reveal their hand. I’ve hinted at mine, so, will you fold or call?”  
“No more, Shalidor. Tell me; or be done with your piece.”  
The storyteller leaned back and took a healthy mouthful of his drink.  
“I know of discontent, Maven, I have seen a lot of it in my long life. Therefore, my eyes see order in the discontent better than most. Someone, or some collective is moving against you, and I believe you have little time left to course correct.”  
“Will you only ever tease me, mage? Or are you actually getting to the point?”  
“Patience, Maven. I do not have all the answers for you, right now. But I’m wagering that I’m the only person in your circle that has noticed this so far.”  
“You presume to be of my circle mage?”  
“I am, now.”  
Maven let out a mirthless peal of laughter and took a hearty swig of her drink.  
“Woe to me, that I am dependent on a strange nameless mage to save my hide.”  
“You know of my name, Maven.”  
“Tell me, mage, do you take me as fool to not know the most famous Nord mage in history?”  
The storyteller’s smile narrowed, and his eyes hardened.  
“Names have power, Maven. And I offered you mine.”  
“Stick to your story then, mage. See where it gets you.”  
The smile slowly crept back on to the storyteller’s face.  
“I’m hoping that it gets me closer.”, he said, placing a hand on her knee.  
Maven’s eyes darted to the hand, and back to the storyteller eyes. A humorless smile crept on to her face, as she placed her own hand upon his.  
“You reach beyond your station, mage.”, she said, as she grasped his hand and removed it from her knee. “Relationships are earned, mage. What do you ask of me, and what do you offer me in return?”  
The storyteller smiled and sipped his drink once more.  
“But of course, we must formalize this. I offer my service, as a mage of significant efficacy, if I may say so myself. And that of a Redguard friend of mine waiting downstairs, who is infinitely more capable than any in your employ at all physical endeavors. Not that I am slouch at physical matters.”, said the storyteller with an ever-widening smile.  
“And what do you seek, mage?”  
“I have a list of items, of let’s say, an elusive nature. I’m hoping that you can retrieve those for me.”  
“Can you not simply summon them to yourself, mage?”, said Maven with a wry chuckle.  
“Magicka has its limitations, Maven. Hence why I do not have your answers for you already.”  
“Well mage, I must see your list before I agree to anything.”  
“Are you sure? Some services of mine are offered for free.”, said the storyteller, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a piece of parchment. Maven reached out and tugged at the list, the storyteller’s grip held strong for a moment, until Maven’s eyes swung from the paper to meet the storyteller’s, Maven’s filled with cautious curiosity, and the storyteller’s filled with placid pleasure. The storyteller smiled and released his grip on the parchment.  
“And, before you ask, my reasons for looking for these are my own.”, said the storyteller, leaning back once more, and slowly closing his eyes. Maven took a few moments to scan the parchment. The list contained two sections, one for ingredients, and one for books.

Ingredient List:  
• A vial of Apocryphan sea  
• A vial of ashpit air  
• A vial of Azure Plasm  
• A deactivated phosphorescent orb  
• Remains of an ash titan  
• The skeleton key  
• A stone from the field of regret  
• A fragment of the blood moon  
• A crimson shard of Moonshadow  
• Wine of the misty grove  
• A fleshy pod from the pits  
• Essence of quagmire  
• Dust of attribution’s share  
• Eyes of a Dro-m’Athra  
• Root of the shivering isles  
• Shadowpalm cap.  
Book List:  
• The hidden sermons of Vivec.  
• The Anuad – Unabridged.  
• Mysterium Xarxes.  
• Divine metaphysics  
• The egg of time  
• Secrets of Dwemer Animunculi  
• A treatise on tonal architecture  
• Shalidor’s insights  
• Reality and other falsehoods.  
• A guide to Dwemer Mega-Structures  
• Kagrenac’s tools  
• A Model of Godhead – Compendium.  
• Souls and Stars  
• Brynjar’s compendium of the walking ways  
Maven folded the parchment in half and clasped the bridge of her nose between her fingers.  
“Fear not, Maven. I know these are hard to acquire. And I do not expect you to get me all of them. Just find as much as you can. Every bit helps. “  
Maven Black-Briar took a deep breath.  
“You sure know how to kill the mood, don’t you?”  
“I’m sure I can arrange it’s return”, said the storyteller grasping her hand. “You know as a mage of alteration; I can be anyone you want.”  
Maven finished the rest of her mead.  
“Not a word of this leaves this room. Meet me at the Black-Briar manor in two hours. My room is on the second floor. I trust you can walk silently?”  
“I’ve been known to have a clandestine footprint when I need it to be.”  
“Good. Now, leave.”  
“Will you banish a man cold, Maven? Have you no heart?”  
“A Daedra heart sits where it once was, now leave before I throw you in jail for indecency.”  
The storyteller stood up feigning false disappointment and running a hand through his golden hair. He turned to leave, stopped, turned back, drew something from his cloak and said, “A parting gift for you.”  
Maven stretched out her hand, and the storyteller placed a golden ring set with six gems, on it  
“Made it myself. Had to walk many difficult paths for it, but it was worth it. Wear it, and it will heal you when you are hurt.”  
“And what price do I have to pay for this, mage?”  
“It has already been paid with your time.”, said the storyteller with a smile. “Speaking of time, the time has come for me to leave, I think. I will see you in a couple hours, try not to forget me until then.”  
Maven’s eyebrows furrowed at the odd statement. The storyteller stood up and exited with dramatic flair. A few moments passed, Maven looked through the list in her hand once more, before folding it up, and storing it in a pocket. Some time later, Maul would return, quite a bit more drunk, and a lot less happy than he was earlier in the day.  
“Ll..Lady Maven.”  
“Maul, how much have you...You know, never mind. I think we’ll all need liquid courage tonight. Go home Maul and meet with me in the morning. I have a job for you.”  
Maven would spend the next hour drinking Blue-Briar in silence, interrupted only by the raucous noise of the rabble below her. As she exited the bar, she would look for the storyteller, but would not find him. The evening wind laden with moisture from Lake Honrich and the scent of honey swept across her face as she exited the tavern. Maven took a moment to collect herself. She had met a true royal. Only one other man had ever held her fancy, Harald Black-Briar. And he had paid the price for it.

A voice echoed from across the bar,  
“Talen, please also bring up a case of your finest mead. I think we’ll need it.”  
Razul sighed, on hearing his friend’s battle cry. He would never voice it, but he knew that the storyteller’s ability to influence minds was almost as good as his skill in Magicka. The storyteller was a dangerous man with a silver tongue, and while Razul disliked his methods, he knew the blade was only effective under special circumstances. Razul was unmatched in the ways of battle, but he had much to learn in the ways of war. A war is fought on many fronts, and while neither Razul nor the storyteller were true warriors, Razul had to concede that the storyteller had the edge when it came to war. But at that moment, while a war was being fought on one front, there was silence on Razul’s end. Razul never liked silence very much. His hearing was sensitive enough to make out the sound a single blade grass rustling from five miles away, so he was never truly capable of experiencing silence. But the mind, silence of the mind was another matter. Razul’s mind raced to keep up with the information his senses were producing, an ideal trait for a combatant, but in scenarios like these, where he had to put his feet down was akin to being tortured by Molag Bal. So, he had learned of ways to keep himself occupied. Getting thoroughly inebriated was one, and eavesdropping was another. In this instance, he was doing both.  
“We’ve had enough mead, Brynjolf. When are you going to tell us about the score?”, said an Imperial man with blonde hair and sideburns.  
“I’m curious on why you’re so silent myself, Brynjolf.”, said another imperial on the same table with long brown hair and a five o’clock shadow.  
“Lads, lads, calm down, enjoy yourself a little. Shor knows, we’re going to need it.”  
“And why is that Brynjolf?”  
“Listen, Rune, I don’t want to talk about it.”  
“It’s that bad huh?”  
“What’re you talking about?”, said the blonde-haired imperial.  
“Dirge, please, leave Brynjolf alone for a moment. Looks like things went very bad.”  
“You don’t even know the beginning of it, Rune. The thieves’ guild might be finished. A lot of our operations were banking on this score.”  
Razul’s ear perked up on the mention of a thieves’ guild  
“And?”, said Rune.  
“It all went belly up, didn’t it? Vex, Delvin, Sapphire and I were damn near killed by Riften’s finest on our way out.”  
Dirge let out a low whistle.  
“What about the loot?”  
“What loot, lad? There was nothing of value in that shipment.”  
Rune took a deep breath and drained his tankard. Brynjolf followed suit.  
“So, what next then?”  
“I don’t know lad. I don’t know.”  
Rune’s eyes went blank, and his lips straightened out. Dirge screamed,  
“TALEN!”  
“What?”  
“More ale!”  
“Coming right up.”  
Some time would pass, as the threesome drank in silence. The silence was abruptly broken by Dirge slamming his mug on the table, rising from his stool, and shouting,  
“Fuck all this! Hundred Septims to the first man that can punch me in the face!”  
A silence fell across the bar. Not a single soul moved or spoke.  
“Did you stinking milk-drinkers not hear me? I said, a hundred Septims to the first person with enough balls to punch me in the face.”  
A low whisper broke out across the bar.  
“Is he serious?”  
“He’s just drunk, ignore him.”  
“Somebody should take away his ale.”  
“Isn’t that thieves’ guild armor?”  
“How dare he, sneak thief!”  
Within a flash, Dirge had disappeared from his position next to Brynjolf, and struck the patron sitting on the next table over, the blacksmith Balimund, right on the face. Balimund’s jaw went slack, as Dirge held his collar and screamed,  
“I SAID! PUNCH! ME! IN! THE! FACE!”, punctuating each syllable with a blow to Balimund’s head. Dirge’s grip on Balimund had only just begun to loosen, when three figures descended upon him faster than he could perceive.  
Unmid Snow-Shod had just finished a long shift at the Mistveil keep and was yearning for a stiff drink. He walked into the bee and barb, late in the evening, as he would always do, greeted Keerava, and Talen-Jei the way he always did, and took the seat which he always took. By this point, he did not even need to ask, a glass of Brandy-Mug brandy was placed in front of him, which he drank in silence, as he processed the work he had done in the day. Yet another day was about to pass into the haze, when suddenly he heard the scream of his blacksmith, Balimund echo across the chamber.  
Mjoll the Lioness truly hated conflict. However, she had spent her entire life preparing for the eventuality that conflict might happen, and therefore could no longer imagine a life without it. The thieves’ guild’s destruction was the latest amongst the long list of causes which she had taken up over the course of her life, guided by her love/hate for conflict. And this night had begun like most others, with her ranting to Aerin about the pervasiveness of the guild, him comforting her and offering ideas. Mjoll was outspoken about her distaste for the guild, but at the same time, scared to her core by it. Scared that one day she might wake up with Aerin’s head in her bed. Scared that her empty enthusiasm might lead another wayward soul down a path of anguish. Try as she may, she could never bring herself to act against the guild. Fear bound her hands more than any chain ever could. But her prayer was heard, whether by Aedra or Daedra, and that night gave her her first true chance to act.  
Sapphire was born of Breton blood, but not of Breton luxury. She was not skilled at magic like her extended family, not that she got to see them very much, after her father had left her mother and her siblings with nothing more than a pig farm on the outskirts of Riften to their name. But still, as pitiable as her existence was, they lived well using whatever they could scrounge up. She had always been gifted, and nimble with her hands, whether she was using them to pick her brother’s pocket of the yam he had found, or when she was beating her sister for hiding the only doll in the family. As much as they hated one another, they loved each other more. Every night, she would dream of the time her brother had found a vein of fool’s gold, or the time when her mother made them pork stew. Sapphire was unique, her dreams were always unaffected by her life. Always positive, always the life she yearned for. Waking up was her nightmare. Every moment of silence, when she was awake was punctuated by noises, of the jeers of raucous bandits, of her dress being torn to shreds, of her own screams, as they echoed across the sky continuously for a fortnight. The stench of skooma, cheap alcohol, and human discharge permeated the air any time she attempted to use her nose. Even the thought of being touched sent shivers down her spine. Yet somehow, despite all this, she had managed to carve out a niche for herself in life. Because of all this, Sapphire hated those that would willingly throw their life into danger. She had started moving the instant she heard Dirge speak, her pace only quickened when she heard Balimund’s screen.  
It was over before Balimund could hit the ground. Unmid Snow-Shod threw a wild haymaker, which pushed Dirge into the path of Mjoll, who tackled him to the ground. From the opposite side, Sapphire bashed in Dirge’s temple, and cracked his skull, causing him to bleed from his ears. Dirge lay motionless, his eyes wide open, and hollow. Mjoll sat straddling Dirge, her eyes locked on his, and at that instant she knew.  
“RESTORATIONIST!”, she screamed. “We need a restorationist or a healing potion right now!”  
A voice rang out.  
“Move.”  
A man in a blue cloak leaped over the overturned table behind Mjoll. He pushed her away, and began casting magic, and a golden light suffused and surrounded dirge. Mjoll watched as the blood withdrew into his ear, as the skull cracked into place, and as life returned to Dirge’s eyes. But her attention was not on Dirge, but the restorationist in front of her. The image of this man working his magic was seared into her eyes. His medium length hair, golden, glistening, straight, and slicked back upwards and backwards. His pale, icy eyes almost seemed to penetrate into Dirge’ soul. His beard, well-trimmed, and closely shaven to match his angular jawline. His ears, were mostly round, but betrayed a very slight point indicating Mer blood somewhere in his ancestry. His nose, sharp, yet stately, his lips full, yet thin, and his eyebrows, thick yet slender. His clothes, a synergy of silver and midnight blue. Even his Malachite undershirt, ordinarily bright green, was dyed blue. A singular silver amulet, with a silver pendant shaped like a triangle, ensconced in a circle, set on what was shaped like a piece of parchment. But the part that drew her attention, was his cloak, a harmonious collection of gears interlocked with gears interlocked with gears, arranged in a schema that could not exist in a three dimensional space, and yet, spinning in perfect synchronicity.  
The storyteller’s face was contorted and strained as he closed Dirge’s wounds, something Mjoll knew as a simple spell, but potent. Two minutes passed, though everyone would swear it was fifteen, as everyone held their breath and watched the storyteller work. Many in the room, were praying for Dirge to never wake up, but three sat enraptured in silence who would sacrifice their own life that Dirge may live. Brynjolf, Rune and Sapphire all stared at each other in shock, each of them failing to comprehend the reality in front of them. Sapphire specifically, sat not even realizing that her knuckles had cracked from the blow. Mjoll and Unmid sat shoulder to shoulder on the opposite side, gritting their teeth, their muscles locked in place with tension. As the storyteller finished casting the spell, and his arms lowered, the entire room released a sigh, but looked on with anticipation. The three of the thieves’ guild sat in silence still, unwilling to believe what they were seeing. A voice rang out,  
“Always knew you were a tough sonuvabitch, Unmid.”, said Dirge.  
Everyone broke out of their reverie. Unmid let out a small laugh, and soon, the whole room was chortling along with him.  
“The three of you did a number on me didn’tcha?”, Dirge said, his eyes darting from Sapphire, to Mjoll to Unmid. “Still, Unmid hit me first, so here’s your stinking gold.”, he said, throwing his entire coin purse at him.  
“Keep the change.”  
Unmid stood up slowly, ran his fingers across his face, collected himself, and yelled,  
“A round of mead for everyone.”  
The whole bar cheered and erupted in a round of applause. The storyteller slunk away silently, aided by Magicka, and smoothly melded in the crowd. Dirge got up, spat some saliva to the side, and walked out of the bar. The rest of the thieves’ guild would follow, one by one, in absolute silence. Mjoll would continue to sit hunched over, her blood pounding, and eyes wide. Aerin walked over to where Mjoll sat, placed a soft hand on her shoulder and said,  
“I think we should leave.”  
Mjoll sat motionless, Aerin’s words had not yet made it through her mind.  
“Mjoll, come on. Let’s go.”, said Aerin, pulling Mjoll on to her feet. Mjoll had still not come to her senses, Aerin dragged her along to their home anyway. The next morning, when she would wake up, she’d remember every single detail of this sordid affair, except one – Who saved Dirge?  
“Well done, healer!”, said Razul, as the storyteller creeped up behind him.  
“How did you know? There’s supposed to no noise coming from my feet.”  
“Your necklace shimmies still.”  
“I just need to extend the spell to all clothing and accessories in my body, then.”  
“I’d still find you.”  
“How?”  
“I know your heartbeat. Calm and collected; always. Like clockwork. Like the beat to a song.”  
“I can scarcely stop my heart now, can I?”, said the storyteller with a chuckle.  
“No, and that’s why I can always find you.”  
The storyteller took a seat in front of Razul, and let the pressure release from him, as his shoulders slouched, and he shrank into his chair. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and then looked up into Razul’s eyes.  
“Restoration always takes it out of me. Worst time, to be honest, because I need to perform tonight.”  
“Oh? A tryst?”  
“I have about an hour before I need to go start preparing for the night. Let me fill you in.”  
The storyteller talked for thirty solid minutes, interspersed by only noises of emotion from Razul, as he recounted the information he gathered, and specifically his deal with Maven.  
“Well, that about sums it up. Any questions?”  
“Only one.”  
“Ask.”  
“The list, did you really need all that?”  
“You’re perceptive as always, my friend. The truth is, some elements on my list, I’ve only ever heard of. Some don’t even exist on Nirn. Some I threw in as a decoy. But you know our true goal, do you not?”  
“A treatise on tonal architecture?”  
“Exactly. This place is a good a place to start looking as any other. Except, perhaps the college.”  
“Think she’ll find it?”  
“I have no doubt that she will. She’s shrewd enough to know her life is on the line.”  
“And what about the rest of the list? Are those useless?”  
“Not quite. I’ve sent Maven on a goose chase, and she knows it. I anticipate that she will likely find the easiest book on the list and make a big show about how difficult it was to obtain.”  
“The easiest book is the treatise on tonal architecture?”  
“By far. I’d like to see her find a copy of the Mysterium Xarxes. That book has been lost to the ages since the oblivion crisis.”  
“So, what will you do now?”  
“As I said, I have work to complete tonight. You know what, let me get started early.”  
“You’re leaving then?”  
“Expect me some time at dawn. And please, for the love of Molag Bal, don’t draw your sword on me again.”, said the storyteller, taking a long draft of the brandy that Razul had been drinking.  
“And yet, you act like a man possessed of a Deathwish”, said Razul eyeing his empty flagon fiercely.  
“Fret not, use this, and just buy yourself a cask.”, said the storyteller, handing over an emerald the size of his palm to Razul. “That should cover the tab, I hope. If not, we’ll have to do some shopping tomorrow anyway, so we’ll take care of it then. Well Razul, it’s time I was off.”  
And with that, the storyteller rose, cast muffle once more, this time extending its reach across his whole body, and walked silently out of the tavern. The smell of honey, and moisture wafted through the air, as the storyteller paused to gain his bearings. The storyteller had to present himself well, he needed to clean himself. He took the scenic route to the manor, passing by the Riften fishery, and lake Honrich. At this time of day, there was nothing there but silence, and calm. The storyteller undressed and immersed himself wholly into the water. The tranquil of the still water surface was broken only by the storyteller’s paddling, as he looked up into the night sky. Masser and Secunda hung above all else, shining a dull pink and grey light over the scene. The mage shined brightly that night, more so than other. The eye of the sage, Julianos dazzled brilliantly, leading the whole constellation with an indolent tempo.  
“Lord Julianos, bless me with the wisdom to seek the truth.”, said the storyteller, putting his triangular pendant to his lips.  
The storyteller would spend an hour there, thoroughly cleaning himself, and musing upon the positions of the constellations in the night sky. As the time for the assignation approached, the storyteller got out, and walked the long beat to the Black-Briar manor. Each house along the way was lit and filled with life. The Pawned-Prawn, Elgrim’s Elixirs, Beggar’s Row, Haelga’s bunkhouse all held, uproarious, and likely besotted folk who refused to go quietly into the night. The storyteller turned the corner and felt the distinct change in atmosphere. This road was filled with guards, some simply chatting, some patrolling or standing guard. The row of manors that stood in front of him, were glorious at one point, but now, only one was well maintained, and making its mark on the city. The Black-Briar manor was built partially of stone, and partially of wood. Such a combination was not uncommon in these parts, but was rather odd to the storyteller, who was used to pure stone construction.  
The storyteller observed, seeing the patterns, and motions of the guards as they safeguarded the street, and Black-Briar manor. Once he was certain he had the pattern figured out, the storyteller traced some patterns in the air, and he was silent once more, but this time, he was also unseen. He walked through, silently, and imperceptibly, straight to the back entrance of the manor. The lock on the door proved little challenge to the storyteller, who used his Magicka to simply move the cylinders to their appropriate positions. Recasting muffle, and invisibility on himself, the storyteller headed up to the second floor, and that would be the last time he was seen outside, that night.  
Maven Black-Briar had come home that night, excited and wanting to prepare, for what, she was not aware. Perhaps she had simply forgotten the evening, due to the copious amounts of alcohol that she had consumed, but the one thing she knew, is that she need to get ready, for a battle, and an exchange of information. With whom, she would ask herself, and the only thing that came to mind was the ring she was wearing, which she had never remembered buying or taking. But she prepared and bided her time. She was rewarded for her efforts multiple times over.  
At some point in the night, when one party or the other had tired of the game they had been playing, a conversation blossomed. Maven laid a hand on the storyteller’s chest, and asked,  
“What are you, Shalidor?”  
“You remembered my name. How touching!”  
“Truth be told, I didn’t. Or rather, I wouldn’t have, had you not given me the ring. All I had was this vague sense of…”  
“A story left unfinished?”  
“Perhaps, but there are better ways to phrase that. But you avoid my question, mage.”, said Maven, as she raised her face to meet the storyteller’s eyeline.  
“Here’s the funny thing Maven, even if I tell you, it will not matter.”  
“What if you write it down?”  
“Then when you read it, the information will pass through your mind, but not stick.”  
“What sort of unique curse do you carry Shalidor?”  
“Interesting.”  
“What?”  
“You called it a curse.”  
“Is it not a curse to be unknowable?”  
“I’m not unknowable.”  
“Do not trifle with Semantics, mage.”  
“I don’t. I speak the truth. I’m not unknowable. You realized who I was the instant you saw me didn’t you?”  
“I think I do, but there’s this….”  
“Haze? Fog? Veil?”  
“Something like that, yes.”  
“Did you know Maven Black-Briar, that all magic has a starting and an ending point. A limit if you will?”  
“And what does that have to do with this?”  
“This curse, as you call it is special amongst all magic, there is not finiteness to this spell. It is self-replicating, self-modifying, and imbued with a bit of my intelligence.”  
“What is its purpose?”  
“To keep prying eyes away.”  
“What about-”  
“Maven, please. I thought this was an honorable exchange. Do not ask questions that I cannot conceivably answer without violating my privacy.”  
“Very well. This meeting is adjourned for now, then.”  
“Good.”  
“Consider it a sign of trust. Along with this.”, said Maven, handing the storyteller a missive.  
The storyteller let out a chuckle and placed the missive on the bedside table.  
“Shall we continue then?”  
“Thought you’d never ask.”  
As Azura’s hour approached once more, from dusk to dawn, the storyteller would retrace his steps back to the bee and barb.  
The constant silence had tired Razul out, and he had fallen asleep on the floor, at a bad angle flagon in hand. It was a rough night for him, as he tossed and turned, dreaming of the unknown, until a loud drumbeat became impossible to ignore. He felt the rhythmic pulse come closer, and closer, until it was within arm’s reach. All he had to do was to extend his hand and grab it. And so, he did, catching the storyteller’s throat in his hand.  
As the haze of sleep slowly drifted away, and Razul realized what he was doing, he immediately released the storyteller, and exclaimed,  
“I’m very sorry!”  
“Well, at least there was no sword this time.”, the storyteller exclaimed, between coughs.  
“Is it dawn already?”  
“It is my friend, unfortunately. Looks like neither of us got a good rest, unfortunately.”  
“That much is true.”  
“But, in the pursuit of sleep, we cannot afford to forsake duty. So, up and at ‘em, my dear boy.”  
Razul rose, and the day commenced.


	3. A Blackened Briar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time in the past, we explore the true history of the Black Briars

Mistveil keep was a special construct, one built entirely of the finest grade granite, which made it stand apart from all the wooden architecture that surrounded it, with the recently constructed Black-Briar manor being the sole exception. The courts of Mistveil keep belonged to the Law-Givers, a family of nobles, who had built it from ground up. But this night, it belonged to the Black-Briars. The great hall had been entirely remodeled, centered around a confluence of red and black. Fine wine, mead, beer, and stronger drinks flew through the hall of law that night, for it was a celebration. As the finest bards across Skyrim prepared for the dance that would follow, two men drank silently in a corner, one dressed in red and black, the other dressed in blue and silver.   
“Spared no expense, did you, brother?”, said Ulrik Law-Giver, wiping his long Auburn hair away from his eyes.  
“Careful, Bjarke might get jealous.”, said Soren Black-Briar with a mild smile on his face.  
“Oh, sod him! Tonight’s about you Soren, and your child.”  
Soren’s smile faded. Ulrik grabbed a glass from a passing attendant and pushed it into Soren’s hands.  
“You worry too much Soren.”  
“What if…”  
“You were a terrible father?”  
Soren nodded weakly, attempted to drink from the glass, and winced in pain as the hard liquor slid down his throat, while he coughed and sputtered.   
Ulrik patted Soren on the back, and said,   
“Soren, I say this with the utmost confidence, after having known you for over 20 years. You will be the worst father Nirn has ever seen. But your daughter, she’ll be fine. Ana has it all under control.”  
A weak smile passed across Soren’s face, and took another sip of the burning alcohol.  
“Daughter? How do you know her gender?”  
“I don’t.”  
Ulrik and Soren broke into loud peals of laughter, more so than was necessary.  
“What will you name her then?”  
“Maven, I think.”  
“Maven Black-Briar huh? Has a nice ring to it.”  
“Well, Ulrik, what about you? When will you decide to have children?”  
“Let me check…How does first Morndas of Morning Star 159, sound to you?”  
Another peal of laughter rang out and was heard across the hall. Vulwulf Snow-Shod turned and saw his host leaning on Jarl Ulrik Law-Giver, both laughing raucously. He turned his attention to the series of delegates sat in front of him – Bjarke Law-Giver, Riften’s foreign policy advisor, and brother of Ulrik Law-Giver, Cyrelas Silinor, a Thalmor ambassador and trader, Fenris the Bold, Jarl of Whiterun. Vulwulf sat quietly sipping his ale, unaware of how he had found himself on this table, waiting for the right moment to make his exit.  
“Honestly, Fenris, I think that you are even more wrong than Bjarke here. I may be an outsider, but even I can plainly see that instating Istlod as high king was a bad move.”  
“And who would you have in his stead Cyrelas, Titus Mede himself perhaps?”, said Fenris.  
“The bear of Eastmarch.”  
Bjarke and Fenris both started laughing in disbelief. Vulwulf choked on his mead.  
“You would have a Stormcloak rule us all? That Nord loving, Altmer hating nationalistic authoritarian? Really?”, said Bjarke.  
“Yes, and I do not jest.”  
“Then perhaps I should have Tolfidr check you.”, said Fenris, pointing at his court mage, who was having a spirited discussion with a young Bosmer.  
“Wait Fenris, let’s hear him out. Speak Cyrelas, tell us why you want that idiot of a Stormcloak rule us?”  
“Precisely because he’s an idiot.”  
“More detail would be helpful.”  
“Gentlemen, I do not wish to mince words. As much as I fight for your cause amongst the Aldmeri dominion, I am the dissenting voice. The Altmer do not believe that Shor deserves worship, leave alone one who mantled him.”  
“You speak of the Talos problem?”  
“Yes, and try as I may, to preach the edict of freedom of speech, those in control do not like that Talos worship continues in this corner of Nirn.”  
“Are you saying there will be war then?”  
“Likely. It’s only a matter of time, fifteen or twenty years.”  
Vulwulf let out a small chuckle, but it was misplaced. The mood of the table had changed. What until this point had been a heated, but inconsequential discussion, had now become a new beast. All three men had put down their glasses and were paying very close attention to each other. Cyrelas continued, but this time in hushed tones.  
“The only way to stop this war, is to instate a figurehead for the problem, and sacrifice him. Istlod is too shrewd of a king to be this. He will, rather wisely for himself, distance himself from all this. And that will be his problem.”  
“His moderateness will allow the problem to fester.”, said Bjarke.  
“Exactly, and in just a few years this minor problem, will be blown out of proportion. Skyrim might even attempt to secede from the empire. I shudder to think what would happen if the pro Talos faction actually got a competent leader, someone capable of leading a nation, instead of that bloated corpse that is known as the bear of Eastmarch.”  
“And your solution is to make him high king?”, said Fenris.  
“Yes. The logic as I said, is to make him a figurehead. And when the time comes, slice him down and replace him with a moderate to show …let’s say, allegiance to the Aldmeri dominion.”  
Silence settled on the table, as the three delegates ruminated Cyrelas’ statements, each in their own way. Vulwulf seized this opportunity and sidled out of the table. As he attempted to walk away, Bjarke held his hand and said,  
“Young Snow-Shod, what do you think?”  
The attention of the table shifted to a nervous Vulwulf. Vulwulf swallowed, and took a seat once more, cursing his luck under his breath.  
“Would you, ahem, I meant to say, wouldn’t you simply be pushing the war?”  
“True, what happens when the moderate you replace Stormcloak with passes? Don’t you think the pro Talos faction would’ve found a true leader by that point?”, said Fenris.  
“Therein lies the true problem. We’d need changes in either the Empire or the Aldmeri dominion. I was hoping that by that point, whoever follows Titus Mede, might be…better suited to negotiate a peace treaty. Worst case…”, said Cyrelas leaning forward and closer.  
“Worst case…Everyone gets more time to prepare for a war. To ensure citizenry don’t get affected…as much.”  
Silence followed once more, and a hollow laughter arose from Fenris, which was joined by Bjarke.   
“Cyrelas, I sometimes wonder if you are actually a Nord.”, said Fenris.  
“As ambassador, it’s my job to fight for you in my court, my liege.”  
“When the day comes that you are being pursued by a mob that will not stop until it sees red, I will ensure that you receive passage to my hold as an honorary citizen of Skyrim.”  
Vulwulf swallowed once more, and looked over to his fiancé, Nura Gray-Mane. Nura was sat amongst many ladies of great repute but was handling herself much better than Vulwulf was. Sat amongst Ana Black-Briar, Silla Law-Giver, and Bergritte Battle-Born, she wove in and out of conversation effortlessly. Ana flagged down an attendant, retrieved a flagon of ale, which was subsequently wrested from her grip by Silla.  
“You know you shouldn’t be drinking that, sister.”, said Silla.  
“Sorry, old habits.”  
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to him.”  
“How do you know it’s going to be a son?”  
“I don’t.”  
The table erupted in laughter.   
“So, have you considered names?”, asked Bergritte.  
“Not really, I left that to Soren, business has been really busy lately.”  
“Ana, you really should think more about your son. Take a few days off, have Tristan handle the business for a little while, why don’t you?”, said Nura.  
“That nitwit Breton couldn’t handle saddling the horses, leave alone the entire business. I could, however, be convinced to take some rest; if you handled it Silla.”  
“No way, I’m just a housewife.”  
“The most well-read housewife in all of the rift. What did Cyrelas say again, after looking at the report that you wrote for Ulrik?”  
“I think he said, ‘You realize I have to report appropriation of work, don’t you?’.”, said Nura to peals of laughter.  
“I didn’t think Ulrik could look more moronic than he usually does.”, said Ana.  
“Hey, that’s my husband you’re talking about!”, said Silla.  
“Feeling heartsick? Ulrik! ULRIK!”, Ana shouted, as Silla attempted to silence her.  
Ulrik and Soren walked over on being invoked.  
“Ladies!” Ulrik cried out.  
“Ulrik! Silla wants to know when you’ll be a man and give her a strong son!”, Ana howled.  
“Well, you can tell Silla that while I am ready for fatherhood even today, but today’s the day of the Black-Briars, my second family! So, I call a toast!”, Ulrik shouted.  
Glasses went up around the room, including Ulrik and Soren’s.  
“TO THE BLACK-BRIARS!”, Ulrik bellowed.  
“TO THE BLACK-BRIARS!”, the congregation echoed.  
Three months would pass, in relative silence for the Rift. Three months would pass, as Ana Black Briar’s world unraveled around her. Ana Black-Briar was sat in her study, tapping her feet, and biting her fingernails.   
“Lady Black-Briar, lady Law-Giver is here to see you.”, said Dralsi Indoril, her Dunmeri housekeep.  
“Let her in Dralsi, and make sure I’m not disturbed until she leaves.”  
“As you wish, lady.”, said Dralsi, as she courteously backed away.  
A stone-faced Silla Law-Giver walked in slowly, and took a seat across Ana Black-Briar. Ana gave Silla a weak smile, and nervously poured themselves two drinks from the reserve on her desk.  
“So, how goes the preparation for the great hunt?”, asked Ana weakly.  
Silla sighed, and took a sip of the drink in front of her. As Ana raised her own glass to her mouth, Silla snatched it from Ana’s grasp, and said,  
“Ana, you are still with child.”  
Ana laughed weakly.  
“Sorry.”  
Silla sighed once more and drained her glass.  
“Ana…”  
“Silla, please, before you begin, let me explain myself.”  
Silla simply nodded.  
“I will not lie to you – I know you’re intelligent enough to put two and two together, I know you know of my…less than legal actions. And I will accept full responsibility for it.”  
“Ana, do you even realize what that means? If your book is true, by my calculations, you have stolen at least one million Septims from many, many places. I don’t think even you would be able to pay all that back. That’s not counting all the favors done by unsavory groups like the Stormcloaks, the Thalmor, Titus Mede…”  
“I know, I know….”  
“I don’t think you do Ana!”, said Silla slamming her hand on the desk, causing the glasses to clatter off the table.  
“How many people! HOW MANY LIVES ANA! DO YOU EVEN KNOW? DO YOU EVEN REALIZE!?”, screamed Silla Law-Giver, while subconsciously shooting out of her chair.  
“Silla, please…” said Ana Black-Briar weakly, picking up the glasses, and pouring alcohol into them once more.  
Silla waited for Ana to finish filling up the glasses and drained them both.  
“Silla, please just trust me on this! I will make reparation for each and every soul I harmed.”  
Silla sat down once more.  
“Silla, if I may ask…How did you come into possession of my black book?”  
“How does that matter, Ana?”  
“Please, indulge me on this Silla.”  
“How dare you, Ana! How dare you ask me to trust you, when by my account you have stolen thousands of Septims from my husband!”  
“Silla, I don’t expect you to trust me immediately. Will you hear out my plan? To make reparation?”  
“Not like I have a choice!”  
“Thank you, Silla.”, said Ana Black-Briar pausing to draw a breath. She then started out on a speech she had rehearsed for days.  
“By my calculation, I have acquired one million three hundred and forty-seven thousand Septims, give or take, in a less than legal manner. I currently, possess roughly seven hundred and fifty thousand Septims in liquid assests, and likely about three hundred and fifty thousand more if I sold every other non-liquid asset I own, and called in every bit of debt I was owed. ”  
“That still puts you at a deficit.”  
“Yes, and that’s why I have a false gamble set up against the empire.”  
“You’re going to defraud the empire of more money!?”  
“It’s an insurance policy Silla, one that I will collect on. To the tune of four hundred thousand Septims, which puts me at a surplus. The only people that are going to be affected are those rich Cyrodiilic bankers.”  
“Ana, you realize that the empire will simply bail them out using the taxes? Taxes paid by the ordinary citizenry?”  
“I know, and that’s why I will invest the surplus back into Cyrodiil.”  
“And make some money for yourself, along the way? Isn’t that it, Ana?”  
“I will be losing all of my assets! And my name, my reputation, will be besmirched, Silla! Is that not punishment enough?”  
“No, Ana, it is not! With the surplus, you’ll simply relocate to Cyrodiil, and run your scams once more, won’t you?”  
“Silla, I’ve always considered you to be my sister-”  
“Your sister? No, Ana, you lost that privilege.”  
Ana rose, her eyes tinged with rage.  
“Silla, you’re being unreasonable!”  
Silla rose to match Ana.  
“Am I? I would say my reaction is perfectly reasonable consider that MY SISTER PILLAGED MY NATION!”  
“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO THEN? OFFER MYSELF TO A DAEDRA IN EXCHANGE FOR SEPTIMS?”, Ana screamed.  
“TAKE RESPONSIBILITY! PROPERLY!”  
Silla and Ana stared at each other with fury in their eyes.  
“I concede.”, said Ana, and sat down once more. “Tell me what you would have me do, Silla, and I’ll do it.”  
Silla walked around the desk, knelt and hugged Ana tightly, tears welling up in her eyes.  
“I will convince Ulrik to lend you the difference, and then some, to set up a new business. Stop the scheming Ana, it’s unbecoming of you. You’re a genius businesswoman, unparalleled in all of Nirn, so I have no doubt that you will make it back in no time.”  
“But where will you procure four hundred thousand Septims, legally?”  
“We’ll sell Mistveil keep.”  
“You can’t be serious!”  
“I’d do anything for you Ana.”  
A single tear rolled down Ana’s right eye, as she grasped Silla in her arms. Silla grasp relaxed, as she reclined unconsciously on Ana.  
“I’m sorry Silla, I can’t allow that.”, said Ana, tears still streaming down her face, as she laid Silla on the floor, and searched her for the black book.   
“What…What’s happening Ana?”, Silla croaked out, almost in a whisper.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”, Ana kept repeating in a haze, still searching for the book.  
Ana’s search yielded fruit, as she went to pull the notebook out, Silla grasped Ana’s hand and stared into Ana’s confused eyes, as the blood flooded into her own.  
“Ana…I’m…pregnant.”, Silla mumbled, as her grip loosened.   
The moment between when Silla’s hand went limp, and when it hit the ground, felt like eternity for Ana. She remembered a time where things were not so complex, where she and Silla sat together on the bank of Lake Honrich, discussing about their future. How in one evening they had gone from barely acquaintances to blood sisters. She thought of the time when she had punched Ulrik Law-Giver in the face only for Silla to scorn her, and tend to his wounds. She thought of the time when a timid Soren Black-Briar had come to profess his love for her, only to be rebuked and bullied by Silla. Of the time when Silla promised to take care of Maven Black-Briar no matter what would happen to her.  
The thud of Silla’s hand hitting the floor snapped Ana out of her reverie. A few more precious moments passed as Ana’s mind raced to catch up with what she was seeing. Ana’s breathing became more and more erratic, her heartbeat was echoing in her ear. Ana swallowed, and considered her options.  
“The antidote!”, she exclaimed as she rooted through her drawer. The cold touch of glass caressed her hand, and she grasped for it, but the antidote slipped through her clammy hand. She paused, and carefully grasped the antidote in her shaking hands, struggled to open the cork for a few moments, before finally succeeding. Ana rushed over to Silla, and forced the antidote down here throat, tossing the antidote away, and screaming out as loud as her lungs would allow it.   
Soren Black-Briar sat in an adjacent room, reading through yet another missive from yet another diplomat. His ears perked up at the sound of raised voices, but he reconsidered interrupting Ana, thinking back to the last time he had done that. The blood curdling scream, however, he would not ignore. Soren rushed to the Ana’s room only to see her clutching the unconscious form of Silla Law-Giver. Soren stood shocked for a moment, but acted quickly, checking Silla’s very weak pulse, before picking her up and rushing her to Elgrim’s elixirs. As he rushed her to the carriage, Silla would exhale her very last word – Laila.  
The rest of the day would pass with Ana crying on Soren’s shoulders. Around midnight, Elgrim exited his workspace, and motioned for Soren. Soren extracted himself from Ana’s death grip, and walked over to Elgrim.  
“Sir Black-Briar, I think we should talk outside.”, said Elgrim, lighting up his pipe with tobacco.  
“Yes, sure.”, Soren said, walking behind Elgrim as they exited out to be greeted by a cool, wet breeze from Lake Honrich. Elgrim took a deep drag of the pipe, and offered it to Soren, who declined.  
“There used to be honor in this city, Sir Black-Briar.”  
A raindrop hit Elgrim’s pipe and wetted the spark. Elgrim sighed, emptied his pipe, and returned it to his coat pocket. A thunderstorm was incoming, and a nasty one at that.  
“Speak Elgrim, what happened to my sister?”  
“Poison sire. Something made, not natural. Something derived from nightshade. She wouldn’t have survived if she had not been fed the antidote.”  
Soren stared daggers at Elgrim.  
“Will she be alright?”  
“I’m not sure sire.”  
“Elgrim, please.”  
“I doubt she’ll wake again sire. I’ll have to keep feeding her extract of thistle, honey, and garlic to keep her alive. I would numb the pain, and allow her to pass humanely, but…”  
“What is it Elgrim?”  
“She’s with child, sire.”  
Soren closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.  
“Listen, Elgrim. Not a word of this leaves this place. The Law-Givers have already left for the hunt, I promised Ulrik that I would send over Silla as soon as she was done talking to Ana. I will personally talk to the Law-Givers and beg for their forgiveness once they return. But you need to keep her alive until then. No matter the cost.”  
“As you wish sire.”  
Soren stared back into Elgrim’s Elixirs – Ana sat there hiccupping and sobbing quietly.  
“Don’t tell anything to Ana.”  
“Of course, sire.”, said Elgrim, retreating into the building.  
A few minutes passed as the rain strengthened, and Soren considered his next actions all the while being soaked by it. After carefully considering his actions, he walked inside, and spoke once more to Elgrim.  
“Ana and I will be leaving now; I trust you have this under control?”  
“I do.”  
Soren grasped Ana, walked her to their carriage, and returned to Black-Briar manor. Days would pass as Ana Black-Briar lay in an inconsolable state. Soren would sit next to her through all of it. When it appeared that Ana had finally come into touch with her own feelings, Soren spoke to her.  
“Ana”  
“Soren”  
“Can you be strong for me, Ana?”  
“Strong?”  
“I have bad news Ana, that I wish I did not need to tell you. Will you be strong for me?”  
Ana wiped at her bloodshot eyes, dry of tears, as they had thoroughly dampened her sleeves, as well as Soren’s shoulders.  
“Say it, Soren.”  
“Silla Black-Briar will never wake again.”  
Ana froze, incapable of processing the information she was given.  
“That’s awesome news!”, Ana said, smiling widely. “When can we see her again?”  
“No, Ana, she’s in Vaermina’s land now. Forever, until we grant her a permanent release.”  
Ana laughed hollowly and slid down to the floor. She had no more tears left to give. So, she did the only thing she could – She let out a scream that broke her vocal glands. Soren simply held her, as she writhed on the ground, screaming into the sky. Soon she grew silent – Unable to scream, unable to move anymore, unable to even think.  
“Ana, I need you to be strong once more. That’s not the only bad news I have.”  
Ana sat up and stared rapturously at Soren.  
“Ana, when I was with Elgrim, he told me something. He said, the poison was human made, and that Silla wouldn’t have survived if she had not been given the antidote.”  
Ana’s mind seized up at the question she knew was coming.  
“Did you poison Silla, Ana?”  
Ana simply stared blankly at Soren. Soren closed his eyes and put his hands on his face. He knew the answer even before Ana could say it. Her face was a dead giveaway.  
“Ana, be honest with me. Did you do anything to the rest of the Law-Givers? To Ulrik?”  
Ana’s stare did not change. Soren walked over to his drawer, withdrew his personal reserve alcohol, and drained the quarter bottle that remained. Soren would spend the next few hours screaming, breaking his room apart, exacting his rage on anything other than Ana, screaming insults at her all the while. Ana simply sat in shock.  
Months passed, as Ana Black-Briar sat in her room and wallowed. She would give birth to a healthy young girl, who Soren would name Maven. Some time later, Silla Law-Giver would give birth to a girl as well, one Soren would name Laila. Silla would pass away the next day, numbed from all pain by an elixir. Soren would retreat to Mistveil keep, and act as an interim Jarl, after the entire family of Law-Givers would fail to return from their hunt.   
Isolation was Shegorath’s canvas, waiting for a splash of color. And if one were to ask Sheogorath, he would say that the funny thing is that he’d wouldn’t need to do anything. The human mind tends to chaos, like all other things on Mundus. And so, did Ana’s mind, destroyed by her self-exile. But in that chaos, as her mind constantly destroyed and reconstructed itself, a single nugget remained, the only thing that she had left – Maven Black-Briar. She knew she could never get to her, not while Soren was around. So, she completed another dark sacrament, like the one she had done for the Law-Givers. And quite like the Law-Givers, Soren Black-Briar would fail to return from a diplomatic mission.   
Ana saw a future in Maven Black-Briar. One where Maven lived in her stead. But she needed to set up the pieces. Everything needed to be just right for her. She knew true power was in the shadows, so she groomed Laila Law-Giver to be a puppet for her. Maven, however, would be better suited to rule – She would have no conscience, nothing to care about other than herself. Maven would be better suited to control – She would have no empathy, nothing to share with another. Maven would be better suited to lead – She would have no sympathy, nothing to pity about another.


End file.
